


Entwined

by ozomin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, alternate versions of their parents, children then adults, light casework
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:08:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1806415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozomin/pseuds/ozomin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene's twelve when she loses status as an only child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entwined

**Author's Note:**

> Potential three parter: if I get motivated. But for the most part it can be considered completed.  
> Enjoy!

Irene Adler.

Her parents had thought to give her a mature name.

Irene remembers peering around the banister, polished lavender wood beneath her small fingers. Her mother had braided her brown hair back in a thick plait, made her wear one of her best dresses: a checkered one with a white ribbon that day. Irene’s twelve when she loses status as an only child.

The door opens in the morning light and Irene squints as her family welcomes another child, a boy of fourteen into their home. He doesn’t look half as nice as she does with his second hand clothes, round and reddened cheeks and unkempt hair, dark and tangled. And despite the mess of his form, Irene sees the gangly limbs and realizes there’s definitely a growth spurt in progress. The second his eyes snap to her, they’re sharp and precise, cutting through her like a scalpel. His hands are stiff at his sides, not touching only looking, observing. Irene isn’t scared of him, and she’ll never admit to it if she is.

She stares at the boy like he’s invaded her homeland, like he’s terrorizing it and she wants him gone.

His name is Sherlock.

Sherlock’s fifteen the first time he shows Irene a picture of the crime scene he had been sneaking around earlier.

He usually keeps them to himself, tucked in a box beneath his bed or splashed across the walls of this bedroom. Irene admits to sneaking a peek, however deliberately when his door is left ajar. They’re gruesome things: strangling, decapitations; she’s strangely intrigued by the pictures.

It’s a murder, a robbery gone wrong. Sherlock had taken the pictures from his vantage point beneath the crime scene tape. One of the officers against his better judgment let Sherlock stay despite his initial vehemence at the idea.

"Irene," he says one afternoon, his voice a haphazard mix of boy and man. "Do you want to see?" Of what exactly, Irene immediately knows, her knees buckle from where she’s standing right outside his room, hand on the doorknob, she’d thought her steps were as stealthy as ever. And even then, Sherlock still knows when she’s there.

"See what exactly?" she still says, edging the door open. "I’m not in the mood to play games." Her voice, predictably is still high and girly, no commanding quality that she tries so hard to achieve.

Sherlock only rolls his eyes and nods, urges her further into the room. “It’s a crime scene.” Is all he says. He’s got the pictures in his hands he then holds them out in her direction.

The deep purple drapes her mother had chosen for the room are mostly drawn shut. There’s a shaft of light illuminating the curled black damask pattern of the walls. There’s a sole map of the world and a smaller one of the London area hung across one of them, Irene concludes the case he’d been working on has been closed for the time being.

Sherlock’s standing in front of the window, only his silhouette visible if she narrows her eyes. Piper, their little brown Labrador rubs its side affectionately against Sherlock’s calf. He pays no mind, Irene sees the little spark in his eyes when he looks at the dog, knows he’s quite fond of the pet.

Irene reaches a hand out, can’t stop the slight tremor and wills it to stop when the pictures touch her hands. Her fingers slide across the film as she observes them.

It’s a spattering of blood across an otherwise blank wall in one. Expensive looking jewels spilled across the beige carpet among other things in another. In one there’s the outline of a body, recently moved for autopsy and the harsh light of the camera bulb soaking all three.

"Ghastly isn’t it?" Sherlock says lowly, he can’t hide the joy nestled deep in his voice.

"No, it’s life." Irene replies. "These things happen." Sherlock looks momentarily taken aback by the response, it’s minute but she notices.  
Sherlock says this isn’t as bad as they can get. Irene swipes her fingers across her temple where the victim was shot and believes him.

Irene’s twelve when she first witnesses the brutal end of Sherlock’s intellectual whip.

He’d only been around a week and a half. Irene usually leaves him alone, leaves him to wander the two floors and yards on his own. He seemed to prefer it that way. Irene can still see the dew on the grass when she ambles out the back door that morning, intent on getting him to say something to her, even a hello would be nice.

Irene scans the myriad of rose and pokeweed bushes, almost doesn’t catch him squatting under a particularly untidy one. She remembers the gardener doesn’t come until half past eleven. Sherlock’s picking attentively at leaves that Irene can’t seem to catch a pattern to as she approaches him.

"Breakfast is ready," she starts and half hopes it’s gentle sounding enough to introduce her without frightening him.

"Go away, I’m busy," he’s still turned away. Irene only scrunches her brows in slight irritation.

"There’s no need to be mean, Mummy sent me to get you," Irene lies easily. She does it too often to feel comfortable but it’s a skill nonetheless.

"I’m not hungry," his voice is hard, uninterested.

Irene huffs, unconcerned whether or not he can hear her. In fact, she wants him to.

"All you’ve done since you’ve got here is play around with the plants, and sneak off to shadow the police!" her voice rises the way it does in young children. She can’t help the whining quality of it, hopes Sherlock doesn’t think she actually wants him around to spend time with her.  
Sherlock whips his head around and Irene’s half frozen to the spot, the damp grass spotting her house shoes.

"And all you’ve done is lie to her about how you feel when I’m around.” Sherlock stands, his palms in hard fists. The tattered roots and leaves left forgotten at his feet. “You don’t want me here and I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to live with a bossy little child who thinks she knows it all. I notice it. When you try to show mummy and daddy but they don’t give you a second thought. They don’t notice you dropping most of dinner into Piper’s bowl because you’ve lost your appetite. You’re a sentimental little girl with no purpose in life but to please people. And even then you fail." He lets out in a rush.

Irene stands there and cries until she can’t breathe.

Irene’s on the cusp off thirteen when she hears Sherlock’s reason for even being there. She’s crouched next to the room her parents are having tea in, her ear pressed against the white painted wood.

"How has Sherlock gotten on?" One voice says, it’s gruff but neat, curious.

"The boy keeps to himself, barely speaks to Irene—" Irene recognizes that that’s her mother’s voice between bites of biscuit.

"Mycroft misses him. It was his choice and now look what’s happened." Another female voice adds clearly concerned.

"Ho ho? It can’t really be his choice can it Minerva?" Irene picks out her father’s voice airy and cold sounding.

"We’d lost the funds for the boy, I wanted to keep him, Minerva suggested we have someone else take care of him until we can afford—" The first man starts.

Minerva scoffs, “Gerald, for heaven’s sake, your own son thinks you don’t want him.”

"We’ll take him back as soon as the budget allows—" Gerald says. “My business—” he starts.

"Gerald, Warren and I have already taken in your son, you can’t care for both of them. Think of the budget." Mrs. Adler replies. “I believe it’s time you forget about that business of yours and find something to support your children.” She says curtly.

“I don’t need you telling me how to raise my son, your own daughter won’t even defend herself.” Gerald says, voice grim.

"Leave Irene out of this matter," Mrs. Adler raises her voice and unlike Irene’s, hers sounds solid and threatening, persuasive. Irene wants that. "Your son lives here and he will until he’s old enough to choose where he wants to go. For now, the deal has been made." She says with a finality that leaves Gerald and Minerva, and her own husband quiet.

Irene’s face is burning and she wastes no time in skipping off to her own room. It’s then she grasps the concept of what ammunition truly is.

The first time Irene really understands the joy of manipulation is over the Christmas holiday. She’s fifteen and fresh off the sour experience of her father leaving for over a month.

It was petty really.

Irene could care less if he’s there or not, her mother doesn’t need him and she surely doesn’t either.

Sherlock’s lounging across one of the couches in the drawing room, a book lying on his chest and Piper’s head in his lap.

He peeks an eye open when she enters.

“I’m not sleeping,” he says in response the question she’s curiously left unasked.

His voice is hopelessly low at this point. If Irene wasn’t so keen to lead him off at every turn, she could admit that she enjoys listening to him speak. However she could never reach the stage that Sherlock has in relation to his own apparent obsession with his voice.

"I wasn’t asking," Irene strolls further into the room. Piper’s ears perk up and he lifts his head from Sherlock’s lap.

"What is there left to ask then?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Any cases lately?" Irene’s own voice borders a boyish nature, not yet sharp and commanding.

"No," Sherlock lies as easily as she does.

"Why a book of the northern pacific?"

"It interests me." Sherlock says sitting up. Piper bristles slightly before jumping off the couch and hurrying from the room. Sherlock only looks wistful for a moment.

"And I could wager that that’s not all that interests you." Irene straightens her back, thrusts her chest forward, tries all she can to be the woman her mother is.

"And what is that? This supposed case?" He replies, reaches a hand back to scratch at his scalp.

"Yes, I want to join you." Irene says coldly as forcefully as she can manage. "You’ll take me with you. Won’t you?"

"And what makes you so sure?"

"This." Irene holds up an envelope, taken from the depths of her dress pocket.

"And a piece of paper is supposed to convince me to take you on a case?"

"So there is a case!"

"Don’t be so proud of yourself." Sherlock gives the paper a look of mild interest. "How long have you had that? Two years?"

Irene pouts, “Just as observant as ever. You’ll never guess what I’ve got here though.” she waves it around just slightly.

"Obviously. What’s your bargain then?"

"I tell you if you take me on the case with you. Non negotiable. I assure you it’s important." Irene holds the paper tight, in the envelope is two years prior the reason of Sherlock’s stay, the conversation she’d heard their parent’s discussing so long ago. Irene had bounded up to her room and transcribed what she could, which was the majority of it without much problem.

Sherlock sighs heavily, “If I can’t guess what’s in it first.”

"You can try but you’ll never guess."

"You always complain about sounding like a child but you never seem to be anything otherwise."

"And you’re no man Sherlock, just another silly boy with silly dreams. A detective?" Irene’s proud of herself for getting that much out.

"Travel papers?" Sherlock’s first guess occurs while they’re both seated in the detective inspector’s booth, waiting for him to arrive. Irene’s wearing a thick black coat, it’s wrapped tight around her more lithe form.

"No." Irene smiles.

A man had been found dead near the harbor, soaked papers and passport from a recent trip to the north pacific in his jacket pocket. Sherlock revels in the fact they’re still legible and Irene basks in the idea of finally having Sherlock at her very command for the first time in her life. He’s too intrigued by the contents to just forget about it.

"Identities?" Sherlock guess a second time, whispers to her from behind a barrel, their murderer just beyond them a few feet away. Irene had managed to connect the death to a money extortion plot that had taken place in a nearby warehouse. She’d remembered reading it in one of her mother’s files. Sherlock’s only slightly peeved she’d solved it before he could. There had been a rumored meeting this night and so he’d told the inspector to rally his forces and here they were. He’s tucked Irene as close to him as he can manage however subconscious it may be.

"Once more." Irene can see her breath in the crisp air. Her gloved hands catch loose wood splinters as she skims them down the length of the barrel. She doesn’t see Sherlock smirking behind her as he signals for the police to intervene and they do.

It’s mostly just a cacophony of men shouting, not as violent as Irene pictured like they do in the cinema. Sure they’ve got guns out but no one’s shooting anyone.

"It’s why I’m here." Sherlock says that night. They’re both still high on adrenaline, lying face up on the floor of upper landing of the Adler estate wide awake.

Irene swallows and thinks herself a fool.

"You knew already." She says so quietly Sherlock almost doesn’t catch it.

"You wanted me to take you. So I did. Simple as that." He frowns.

"It’s not that simple. You’re only here because—"

"My parents can’t afford to have me." He sounds detached. "I’ve lived here since I was fourteen, I’m no Holmes anymore."

"Who are you then?" Irene squeezes her eyes closed, wants the prickling to stop. For once she just wants to be successful at something. Even if that endeavor is trying to outsmart most brilliant boy she knows.

"I’m just a detective."


	2. Wounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now adults, Irene and Sherlock now deal with a death in the family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, comments are appreciated :)

Sherlock Holmes is twenty-four when he wakes at the ungodly hour of three that morning. He'd heard rustling from the living room and proceeded to investigate. He slips on a tartan dressing gown, only knows it as such from the scratchy felt feel of it in his hands. His eyes slowly adjust to the dim of the room as he stands.

Initially it does not strike him as an emergency, he knows her footsteps. That exact pitter patter of feet that can sneak anywhere without being heard. Though currently the last thing she's being is stealthy. Maybe some part of her wants to rouse him from sleep, by "her" Sherlock's referring to his childhood friend Irene Adler. Since her family had taken him in after his own family was at a loss for funds, their relationship really had time to develop. Sherlock's hesitant to use the word friend when he refers to her, but in the end it's the quickest way to get the sentimentality of their relationship down to one word.

He'd never really had friends. An older brother yes, but a real honest acquaintance was difficult to come by. Sherlock's not ashamed to admit he's been ostracized all through his college career. He'd rather spend his time in a chemistry lab expanding his knowledge anyway.

The only one he's allowed as a go-between to his social and academic lives is Irene. So in conclusion maybe she is his friend.

Sherlock shakes his head of the thought and peels the door open.

His treads down the hallway, even he's aware of his large shoe size, as well as the rather ungraceful gait he's got as a result. Sherlock's learned to utilize crisp coats and polished dress shoes to change perceptions. He may have gangly limbs and a thin face, but his sharp mind and dress have successfully intimidated those he wanted to.

Sherlock sees the layout of the main room in his head even if he can't necessarily see it well with his eyes.

It's a small flat, two bedrooms and one bathroom, located outside the heart of London. He knows there is a circular dining table to his left, a small vase of dying flowers up top it. And the kitchen area to his right with its full size fridge and small stove. Past that is the living room where he ought to find the source of this interruption.

Even as he shuffles into the main room, there still aren't any lights on. But the curtains on the main window that spans the far wall are drawn back. He sees her silhouette against the orange of the streetlight outside, her reflection in the glass pane. Her slight form is standing between his cluttered desk and a bookshelf, sheaves of papers scattered across the surfaces and shelves. She's dressed as if she'd just come in, and Sherlock has reason to believe that that is what has happened. With her black coat tied tight around her middle and her boots splattered with rain water, Irene looks like she's been out most of the night.

Sherlock sees the distress in her unkempt hair, run through with her fingers countless times and he wonders why. Sherlock rubs at his eyes further wake himself.

"Irene?" her immediate body language sets signals going off in his brain, folded arms, the tight shoulders. "Something wrong?" his voice is quiet, low and maybe a bit raspy from sleep.

She stiffens at his words, only turns back towards the window and away from him.

Sherlock furrows his brow, the fact that she didn't bother to reply only worried him further. Irene was many words however complacent was not one of them.

"She's dead." Irene covers her mouth with her hand.

"Who--" Sherlock steps closer, close enough to see her face in the yellow hue of the light outside, close enough to see the red splotches on her cheeks and the way her jaw is tensed. Her phone is clutched tightly in her hand. "Mother?" Sherlock tilts his head.

"Heart attack. A neglect for her medication." Irene grits her teeth. "This could have all been avoided--" She stops and stares up at him with watery eyes. Her hair is damp and messy; she must have been out in the rain when she got the phone call. Sherlock raises a hand and pushes back a strand from her temple, leaves his hand to settle against the side of her face. He feels the initial chill in her skin before it warms beneath his hand.

"She's been forgetful lately," Sherlock half mumbles, avoids her eyes and looks out the window at the lone streetlight casting yellow against grey pavement and gloomy looking buildings. "I spoke to her the other day. She couldn't place where she'd left her best stationary, even though she tends to write letters every day. It was bound to happen--and I'm not excusing it exactly, just. . . explaining." Sherlock draws his lips into a thin line.

The last thing he wants is to upset her and when they only thing he can offer is a possible explanation it's not much in the way of comfort. And Sherlock realizes that, he's always found it difficult to express things that aren't just the facts. In fact part of him doesn't want to acknowledge that there may be a sadness in him, or any feeling in general. They do nothing to benefit him so he chooses to shut them down instead.

Irene's mother was in many ways a mother to him as well. He did live with them for four years. He remembers helping her with gardening after she retired, however stubborn he was at the time. Irene had successfully baited him into doing it in her stead; their mother didn't know that though. And Sherlock still considers it a bonding opportunity. He also remembers his attempts at comforting her when Mr. Adler left and never came back. Sherlock thinks maybe he can arch over the techniques in some fashion to help Irene.

"She was, wasn't she?" Irene says, lips barely moving. She's not really listening to him anymore, her eyes trained on the drizzle of rain outside.

Sherlock says nothing, shifts his eyes back to her face and the rigid way she's holding herself.

"I'm leaving for home Sherlock." Irene's lips tremble but her voice is steady.

When Sherlock shifts his foot hits the dark colored luggage at Irene's feet and he understands immediately.

"Let me get my coat." He says, all resemblance of exhaustion gone.

It takes Sherlock seven minutes to pull on some trousers and throw an armful of clothes and toiletries into a duffle bag he keeps under his bed. She's waiting by the door when he rushes back through the hall.

It's much colder than Sherlock anticipated when he steps out the door, he pulls up his collar as he watches Irene's brisk pace down the side walk. It's just them shuffling down the dim street at four in the morning. It's hardly the optimal time for travel and that's when Sherlock stops in his tracks.

Irene hears the lack of his footsteps and turns around. She gives him an expectant look.

"Did I miss something?" Irene's chewing her lip with a pained expression. Sherlock feels the winds biting fiercely at his cheeks.

"Public transit doesn't come by until seven." Sherlock bites his own lip, hopes it comes out gently enough.

Irene breathes a heavy sigh and throws up her hands clearly at a loss with what to do next. Her leather bags fall from her shoulder onto the glistening pavement next to her feet. Irene looks to him for an answer.

"Come back inside, we'll leave in a few hours." Sherlock suggests. He watches his breath come out in little puffs as Irene picks up her bags with trembling fingers.

Her heels click against the cement, a smooth pace until she’s toe to toe with Sherlock. Irene gives him a fleeting look of anger and resignation before brushing past him and heading back towards the flat, her hand undoubtedly digging in her pocket for the keys.

Sherlock lets out a yawn of defeat and follows her inside.

Instead of heading back to his bedroom, Sherlock slides into his usual spot on the right side of the sofa. The piece of furniture is worn and old pushed simply into the corner of the room. It’s too plush for his liking but he sinks down into the cushions without a second thought. Sherlock shifts onto his elbow, leans against the armrest and blinks lazily. He’d long lost sight of Irene who had disappeared down the hall. An uncertain number of minutes pass in which Sherlock may have drifted off, he only rouses when he hears her footsteps enter the kitchen.

“It’s six Sherlock, you’ve been asleep.” She says quietly.

“And you?”

“I’ve been awake—”

“Messing with my things I’m sure.” Sherlock has enough energy to retort at least.

“Not at all, just my own. . . things I guess.” Her voice is small.

Sherlock sees the photographs clutched in her hand and lifts his head.

“Irene,” Sherlock says, almost reaches his hand out for her but ultimately decides against it. She’s still stiffly moving about the room, her coat is unbuttoned and the blouse beneath is wrinkled. Irene looks at him with sleepless eyes.

“We’ll leave soon.” He tries to sound assuring. “I know you’re restless.”

It’s not working.

“And what leads you to that brilliant deduction?” She narrows her eyes.

Sherlock frowns, “There’s nothing we can do right now—” He feels the irritation beginning to rise beneath his skin like the sun that’s slowly revealing day to them both.

“I have mourning time don’t I?” Her voice rises just barely.

“As do I.” Sherlock breathes in sharp through his nose. He lets the air out slowly. “There’s no excuse for your anger towards me. I didn’t kill her—” His voice is quick and scathing. “She was like a mother to me as well. I don’t need your smart remarks Irene.” Sherlock takes a deep breath, wills himself to calm down. To his surprise Irene’s reaction isn’t a strong one, she drops the photos and trembles where she stands.

She’s not crying but it eerily reminds Sherlock of the first time he made her cry when they were children. He was merciless when he was fourteen, since then Irene had gradually taught him the importance of familial ties and the like and he does see the significance of these links but he doesn’t always choose to acknowledge them.

“I’m not apologizing,”

They’re plunged into silence, Irene’s staring pointedly at the floor and Sherlock’s wide awake now.

“We should go now.” She says shortly a few minutes later as the clock hand edges towards seven and Irene heads back through the hall to retrieve her bags.

The transit quickly becomes a slow and grueling ride, despite the argument they find it more comfortable to sit together on the isolated seats that face forward. It was within the first hour Sherlock took to reading passengers to distract himself. By an hour and a half he ninety percent sure he knows the employment of everyone on the bus.

Irene stares out the window for the whole trip. She focuses on the static coming across the radio and the snippets of unidentifiable music that seep through. Sherlock doesn’t try as hard as he could have to help her, he whispered a few times near her ear in hopes she’d chime in, but she did not and Sherlock was less than content because of it. He did however rub at her knee comfortingly which she did respond to with a small sniffle. Near the back half of the ride, Irene held tightly to his forearm, the rising sun lighting up her blue eyes and highlighting the exhaustion on her face.

The majority of the scenery was wholly unimpressive. Sherlock could look at all the fields he wanted on the internet if he wanted. Other than the rolling hills and the occasional house or two he found Irene’s face much more interesting.

She was that enigma that he’d known since he was a teenager. She tried so hard to be like her mother, even though she was a different breed entirely, she was an entity that not even he could decipher. Irene wasn’t afraid of much, but like anyone else death was something that could successfully unseat her stable nature.

Two hours later they disembark at some station in Lincoln and within another hour they’ve successfully rented some nondescript car and began heading to one of the county hospitals in the area.

Irene silent in the passenger’s seat as Sherlock pulls into the parking lot. His own stomach is heavy and simultaneously light as air. He figures Irene must feel much of the same.

Sherlock just lets her sit there for a few minutes, lets her collect herself, still the shuddering breaths and the trembling fingers.

“Whenever you’re ready…” Sherlock drifts as he turns to look out the window.

“When I’m ready?” She chuckles gently, “We may never enter then.” She looks straight ahead at the doors pressing open and closed with each patient and staff member.

“If you’re waiting for me then we might as well turn around,” Sherlock admits, “I can wait for you.” He’s unsure if he’s referring to her readiness or the eventual entering of the hospital but he leaves it open ended for her benefit, he wants her to interpret it however she wants.

“Oh, and you’re the most patient man I know,” Her sarcasm is hard to absorb when she’s gripping her purse with white knuckles.

“I’m going in there with you.” He says, sees her fingers loosen slightly from the corner of his eye.

“She hated me.” Irene inhales shakily, “Why are we even here?” Irene’s lips form a thin line and she furrows her brows.

“Because you’re her only daughter, she raised you—”

“To be just like her. Just as cold. Just as detached.”

“And I’m any different Irene? We’re both the outliers in this world, neither of us will ever be able to relate to the mundane, the normal people out there.” Sherlock looks to her, “I’ll go in there with you alright?” Sherlock squeezes her forearm with a warm hand.

“Alright.”


End file.
